


Perfect balance

by dont_hate_me01



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_hate_me01/pseuds/dont_hate_me01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A knife, some courage and love conquers all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect balance

**Author's Note:**

> This is especially written for a contest over on [](http://nanoks.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nanoks.livejournal.com/)**nanoks** site. The prompt word used is **knife**.

**Title:** Perfect balance

**Author:** [ ](http://dont-hate-me01.livejournal.com/profile) [ **dont_hate_me01** ](http://dont-hate-me01.livejournal.com/)

**Beta:** [ ](http://jodean80.livejournal.com/profile) [ **jodean80** ](http://jodean80.livejournal.com/)

**Characters/Pairings:** OMC, Jared, Jensen

 **Genre:** Angst, Drama, Established Relationship

 **Warnings:** Abuse, Character death, Violence

 **Rating:** NC-17

 **Disclaimer:** None of the people in this story belongs to me. This is an original story out of my own pen.

  


He stared at the knife clutched in his hands, the blade a dull color, smutches of blood decorating the magnificent piece of craftsmanship.

He looked up from the bloodied knife and gazed at the trail snaking up to meet him where he was crouching against the wall. He had to concentrate on his own breathing, making sure he breathed in, breathed out. He had to keep thinking about the same four words over and over. His attention goes back to the knife in his hand.

The blade was initialed. He gently stroked his finger over the inscription, feeling the slight indentation clearly. He had the knife for over four years. Four years of hardship, wondering, waiting, hoping. He never thought he would have the opportunity to use this knife in this way.

He looks away and stared at the sneaking bloodline again. This time his eyes followed it a bit further, seeing it going off into the darken hallway, and although he could not see that far into the dark, he knew it went down the stairs. His eyes drifted back to the knife in hand.

He could still remember the first time he held this blade in his hand. The balance was perfect; as if the knife was made for him – and only him. In a way it was.

He closed his eyes and while still concentrating on the words in his head he leaned back, the knife, not moving an inch within his palm. He used his memories and followed the blood down the stairs, down the hall and then into _that_ room – where everything started. He hated that room; he hated this house; the only good thing – his knife.

His eyes snapped open and he followed the trail again. Over the scene in front of him, down the stairs, into the room – this time – onto the bed. The sheets rumpled together at the foot of the bed, feathers covering the whole room, colors ranging from a dull white, to a light pink to a dark blood red. He never knew blood could make such interesting patterns.

The knife in his hand – he had to concentrate on the knife in his hand and his breathing. In and out, in and out. _“You must be sure you know how to use it, there might be a time that you would have to use it – are you up for it, will you be able to do it?”_ He could still hear the voice talking to him, asking him that one important question.

His eyes closed slowly – he was so tired. The grip on the handle did not fail. The bed, the bed was covered in blood, dried semen, but was that all? He could not remember. Don’t let go of the knife. It was becoming more important than breathing.

 _“Don’t hold the knife like that, you’ll end up stabbing yourself to death.”_ The hand that gripped his was warm, was real, spoke of hope. Hope now long gone – lost forever.

Eyes moved behind closed lids. The floor, there was something lying on the floor, his ring. He could not even remember taking it off. He never took it off. The knife, he had to think of the knife.

 _“Why are you helping me?”_ He did not raise his head but asked in whispered tones. The knife clenched in his hand, tight against his chest. His question never got answered. He did not expect an answer, not when he was talking to someone who was not there.

Back to the present, or was it? He was not sure anymore. No longer could he differentiate between past and present. His knuckles lay white against the hilt. The blood circulation cut off to the rest of his hand, his arm, his body – he could not care. His eyes darted over what lay in front of him, racing back down the stairs again to there – to that place. Hold on to the knife, don’t let go.

Smears of blood – caused by the knife – his knife – decorated the floor, small puddles formed with footprints slipping, sliding through it as if it was dancing around the room, living out the huge space. He followed the blood back out into the hall and looked at the bloodied handprints on the wall; the trail was leading him down again to the scene in front of his eyes. Don’t look.

The blade was still dull in the light, he had to get it clean, he had to take care of the blade, never leave it dirty, never let it become dull. He had to clean it, he had to, but he could not move not with what was in front of him.

Slowly he breathed in and out, in and out, not failing once to take a deep breath, no longer caring about the coppery taste he could feel on his tongue every time he breathed out through his mouth. He had to get the blade clean. He pulled on his t shirt, finding a spot that was not blood smeared and started dragging it over the knife. The stains became less, the blade started to shine again – he was doing good.

He had to keep his eyes lowered, he must not look up; concentrate on the knife – getting the blade clean. He moaned softly and then he no longer could look away and he raised his eyes. There – he was looking at it – he was seeing what was before him and then he started to scream.

Dull lifeless eyes started back at him, and it did not matter how he tried to move away the eyes kept on following him, kept on accusing him, blaming him, fucking him by just staring as it was doing now. He had to stop looking, he had to keep concentrating on the knife, but he could not. Screams kept on erupting from his throat, drowning out the silence that surrounded him – he had to make it stop. He had to make himself stop.

He could not stop, he had no idea on how to stop the sounds that were coming from within so he did what he was doing the past five minutes – he kept on screaming, the knife clutched against his chest as if it was the only thing in the world he could hold on to.

Someone stepped into his vision and that made him stop screaming but he started to whimper. Could it be, could he have dreamed it all – would this nightmare never come to an end? He tried to move away, the knife in his hand as he was instructed all those years ago, but even he could see that he would not be able to use it again. He was shivering, no, shaking, his whole body moving in different directions all at once. He could not even fight when the knife was taken away from him. Then darkness descended and he became quiet.

Someone was talking to him, stroking his hair; he felt safe but would not bargain on it. He did not want to open his eyes, what if it was just a dream. He frowned. The voice, it was the one who always looked out for him, the voice that brought the knife into his life. Slowly he opened his eyes and this time he did not scream.

“You had me worried.” The voice said and the green eyes staring up at him were filled with emotion.

He nodded. He did not know what to say. He was not even sure if he was able to talk anymore. It’s been more than three years since he last said something. But wait, that was not right, he did talk. After, after what happened in that room, did he not phone someone, did he not say something? He could not remember. “Sleep.” He look at the eyes and heard the voice and slowly he drifted off again but then his eyes snapped open and he looked around.

Green eyes must have known what he was looking for because it’s pressed into his hand – his knife and this time he close his eyes and he does not wake up for a very long time.

When he wakes up again green eyes was sitting next to his bed. He frowned. Why could he not remember green eyes name, it was important, he knew it was and he whimpered softly. His hand gripped the knife tightly as he started to panic.

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay. Doc says you suffering from PTSD; you just need time to recover.” Green eyes smiled and he felt safe.

“Who?” It was all he could ask. It felt strange to use his voice.

Green eyes smiled. “I’m Jensen. Sleep, Jared, we’ll talk later.”

 _‘Jensen.’_ It suited him. The man with the green eyes.

The third time he woke up he could actually make sense of what was going on around him. Green eyes – no, Jensen was still there, smiling at him.

“I remember you.”

Jensen nodded.

“You loved me.”

“I still do.”

“You did not forget about me.”

“I never could, you’re my husband, Jared, I could never forget you.”

“Is he dead?”

Jensen nodded. “You made sure of it.”

“With my knife.” He looked down at his hands where the knife was still clutched in his hands.

“With your knife.”

“It was the last gift you gave to me before, before…” He started to whisper.

“Shh. It’s all right. You are doing great. You’re right. It’s the last birthday gift I gave you before he kidnapped you more than four years ago. Still not sure why he let you keep it, but…” Jensen swallowed hard.

“He said I’ll never do anything to him, I was too weak.” Jared bowed his head.

“No. You were not weak. You did it, you killed him and you phoned me.” Jensen leaned in and gathered his lover into his arms.

“I phoned you.”

Jensen nodded and then took the knife from Jared’s grasp. “What do you say, let’s put this away, you don’t need it anymore?”

Jared nodded his head. The knife might have saved him but his life belonged to the man who was holding him close. He no longer needed to remember how to breathe, or to make sure he held securely onto the knife, he was saved, he was loved.

**The End**


End file.
